by Ray Flynt
As he got closer to the curve, Brad could see a slight rise at the bend and beyond it a bridge abutment. Brad slowed as he approached, then accelerated into the curve, taking it wide. Thank God there wasn’t any oncoming traffic.
Brad didn’t have to look in the mirror anymore to determine the closeness of the other car; variations in amount of headlights he could see told him all he needed to know.
The pursuer had dropped back coming into the curve, but was quickly closing the gap on the straight run of the bridge.
Brad spotted a traffic signal glowing green in the distance. He wanted to turn at that light.
The signal turned yellow when he was a hundred yards away. Brad tapped his breaks, and light flooded his car telling him that the chase car had backed off. Then Brad floored it. Tires squealed and the chassis shook as he made for the intersection and turned the steering wheel sharply as he crossed the highway. The light turned red before he was under it. A hump in the middle of the road tested the agility of the shocks, but Brad kept the car under control.
A half mile later Brad felt like he could finally breathe normally. He headed southbound on Route 462 and realized the other car had stopped following.
He had just begun to relax when he looked in the rear view mirror. Shit, I don’t need this.
He first spotted the flashing red lights, but now he could hear the siren.
Brad eased the car to a safe spot. The police car pulled behind, lights still flashing and aimed a spotlight into Brad’s car. He powered open the window on the driver’s side and waited.
It took a while before the officer left his vehicle, and Brad imagined that the cop was running the identity of the license plate.
Through the side view mirror Brad saw the officer get out of his vehicle and approach. He carried a flashlight with him that he aimed into Brad’s eyes.
“Well, Brad. Imagine seeing you here.” It was Detective Josh Miller. “Let’s see—speeding, reckless driving, running a red light—looks like you hit the trifecta tonight.”
Chapter Eighteen
Brad caught the last ferry to Daufuskie Island, and attempted to shake off the harrowing experience of almost being run off the road. The irony of being ticketed by Josh Miller just as he’d managed to escape his pursuer did not escape him. Were they in league with each other to stop his investigation?
At the beach house, Beth’s warm smile helped him forget. They shared cappuccinos and freshly baked brownies. It felt so right to be in her arms, as they cuddled on the deck before she drew him into the bedroom for a passionate ending to a long and stressful day.
Beth seemed effusive post-love making, and Brad found himself caught up in their pillow talk, deciding to his immediate regret to mention the tense drama on the country road as he returned from his visit to Denton Carothers, Jr.
Beth pushed back the covers, sat upright in their bed, and glowered at him. “God dammit, Brad! You’re going to get yourself killed!”
She swung her feet over the edge of the bed, planting them on the floor. Brad found himself staring helplessly at her back. He realized she was only concerned about his safety and didn’t know what to say. He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, only to feel her bristle at his touch. Moments later she stood and disappeared into the bathroom. She hadn’t slammed the door behind her but it connected so solidly against the door frame that he winced.
Brad muttered, “I’m sorry.”
Minutes crept by as Brad lay there trying to think what he could say to make it right. She cared for him he knew, and her concern was motivated by his safety. He heard familiar noises of her evening routine at the sink, followed by the shower being turned on. She seemed to be taking longer than usual.
Since Brad was wide awake, he got up, went to the kitchen, and put on a pot of coffee. He would make amends with Beth in the morning.
Exhausted but keyed up, he hunched over the kitchen table and sipped coffee while digesting the information that Nick Argostino had sent him about carbon monoxide asphyxiation. Then he skimmed two books he’d downloaded to his e-reader, including the Till Death We Part book that Denton had mentioned..
At five a.m. he snuck back into the bedroom and slid under the covers, where he lay on his back and stared into the darkness. He sensed that Beth was awake, but neither of them said anything. Minutes ticked away. Beth, who lay on her side facing him, now breathed rhythmically and he figured she was finally sleeping. Brad looked at the bedside alarm clock and saw that it was 6:10 a.m. The sun would rise over Calibogue Sound in less than an hour.
Those were his last thoughts before he succumbed to sleep.
Brad heard the ding announcing a new text message on his phone, aimed one eye at the bedside clock and was startled to realize it was 9:40 a.m. Aware that Beth was no longer in the bed, he rose and checked the text message; it was from Sharon about her impending release from the hospital.
The bedroom door was closed. Brad cracked it open but didn’t see Beth sitting in the family room or in the kitchen beyond. The aroma of cinnamon rolls tickled his nostrils, and he hoped that meant all was forgiven.
After showering and getting dressed, Brad poured himself a cup of coffee in the kitchen, took one of the fresh baked rolls, and spotted Beth sitting on the deck still in her robe.
He slid open the glass door and announced, “Sharon will be released from the hospital between one and two this afternoon. I thought we’d head out in about an hour to pick her up.”
Silence.
He bent down, kissed the top of Beth’s head and slipped into the chaise next to her. She reached for his hand and smiled.
“Thanks for the cinnamon rolls.”
“You’re welcome.” Beth wore sunglasses, but appeared to be staring toward the water.
Brad sipped his coffee and waited. Beth had something on her mind, and he’d hear about it when she was ready.
A tugboat chugged toward Tybee Island and tooted its horn at a passing boatload of tourists.
Beth sighed. “I guess it’s always going to be like this.”
He wished she’d be more explicit before he found himself trapped in the rocky shoals of a conversation he might regret. He turned toward her and smiled.
She finally returned his gaze, dusky brown eyes peering out above the sunglasses. She cracked a smile. “Oh, don’t try to charm me. I’m worried about you.”
“I know.”
“I’ve never spent this much time with you when you’re working on a case. I mean, with me in New York and you in Philly I still worry about you, just,” she paused, “it doesn’t seem as intense as when I’m here with you.”
Brad reached over and took her hand. “I don’t feel in danger. Somebody’s trying to keep me from learning the truth, which tells me I’m headed in the right direction.”
After a few moments, Beth said, “You didn’t sleep very well last night.”
Look who’s talking. “I’ve been thinking about the case,” he said, leaving out his thoughts about the nature of their relationship. “I’ve been reading about the characteristics of carbon monoxide poisoning and the projections on time to unconsciousness in the report that Nick sent me.”
“Sounds thrilling,” Beth said sarcastically.
“I’m trying to get a handle on how long it would have taken the Carothers’ garage to fill with a lethal dose of the gas.”
She turned toward him. “Fifteen minutes?”
He’d managed to pique her interest. “More like three to five.”
“But I’ve read stories about people being rescued after being in closed garages with carbon monoxide for ten or even fifteen minutes.”
“Three minutes would be enough to render unconsciousness,” Brad said, “and without a rescuer…”
“That’s not very long.”
“It’s longer than you think. When I say ‘go,’ close your eyes. Then you say ‘stop’ when you think three minutes have passed. Try to make your mind a blank and no fair counting.”
<
br /> Beth took a sip of her coffee before closing her eyes and saying, “Go.”
Brad watched the second hand on his watch.
Beth dipped her chin toward her chest. He watched as she laced her fingers in front of her and then rolled her shoulders. Moments later she raised her head and said, “Stop.”
“That was a minute and twenty-one seconds.”
“No!” Beth dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand, adding, “That was at least three minutes, maybe four.”
“Nope, only a minute and twenty-one seconds.”
“Okay, what does that prove for your case?”
“Well, it proves that if someone trapped Dana in the garage, he had less than five minutes to figure out how to get out of there. I’m theorizing Dana didn’t start the car himself but was lured to the garage after the car was started. That takes more time off the equation since it’s possible the garage was filled with deadly gas before Dana even got there.”
Beth mouthed, Wow.
“What else is on your schedule today,” she asked, “besides picking up Sharon?”
Brad smiled. Beth had bought into his need to pursue the case.
“I’ll bring Sharon back here so she can rest, then I’d like to meet with Bob Kepner.” Brad consulted his watch before reaching for his phone. “I need to call my friend at the Phoenix Medical Center. Arizona doesn’t go on daylight-saving time, so it’s probably about eight o’clock Mountain Time.”
Brad punched in the number.
“Yes, I’m calling for Dr. Aaron Strasberg. Sure, I’ll hold.” Then, after a few moments, repeated his request, “Dr. Aaron Strasberg, please. All right.” He waited patiently for the call to be transferred. “Yes, Dr. Strasberg? No, that’s fine, I’ll wait.” Again!
Beth stood.
Covering the receiver, Brad said, “They keep transferring me.”
Beth excused herself to get dressed.
On the phone, Brad heard, “Radiology.”
Exasperated, he shouted, “No, I don’t want the radiology department, I want Dr. Aaron Strasberg!”
Brad arrived at the hospital shortly before 1 p.m., parked in one of the patient pick-up spots near the entrance, and headed for Sharon’s room. Beth had decided to remain at the beach house, telling him, “You can do your thing.” She promised to fix a nice dinner for the three of them.
Sharon looked wan but clear-eyed. She busied herself sitting on the edge of her bed holding a hand-held mirror and applying blush to help make her look unaffected by her day-plus stay.
“Did they say what’s wrong?” Brad asked.
Sharon rolled her eyes. “They say I have a spastic colon and gave me a prescription for any recurrence of the pain.”
A nurse entered with her discharge papers, and Sharon listened impatiently as the nurse reviewed all of the doctor’s instructions.
A volunteer arrived to take her in a wheelchair to the front entry, and Brad headed for his car. Only a few minutes later he was behind the wheel with Sharon riding shotgun.
“Well,” Sharon asked, “what are we going to do this afternoon?”
“I’m taking you back to the beach house, and then I’m going to try and find Bob Kepner.”
“Oooohhh, no you don’t,” Sharon said, feisty as always. “I’ve been left out of this case long enough.”
Brad protested she should rest, but Sharon would not relent. They stopped for lunch, and when Sharon only ate an English muffin and tea with lemon, he reiterated his desire that she rest.
“I’m fine.” Referring to the lower GI, Sharon said. “If you had done to you this morning what I had done to me you wouldn’t have an appetite either.”
Brad vowed to make it a short afternoon.
Chapter Nineteen
Before leaving the restaurant Brad called Bob Kepner’s office, but the receptionist stated he hadn’t come in that day. Brad input the address that Amanda had given him for Kepner into the car’s navigation system. With Hilton Head Island shaped like a boot, Kepner’s place stood firmly in the heel—three blocks west of the ocean.
Brad noticed several of the homes along the street had posted “No Parking Private Property” signs, and he had barely pulled into their driveway when he heard a woman’s voice shouting, “You can’t park there, I need to get my car out.”
He looked up and saw a woman leaning over a second-floor deck. She juggled a little boy under one arm and a canvas bag hung over her shoulder.
“Are you Mrs. Kepner?” Brad called out before she could retreat through the sliding glass door.
“Yes.” She returned to the edge of the deck and gawked in surprise that the stranger knew her name. “What do you want?” she asked warily.
“I’m Brad Frame. I’m from Philadelphia, and I’d like to speak with your husband,” he said, just as a lawn mower revved-up at the house next door.
The woman pointed at the front door before disappearing into the house.
Turning to Sharon, he said, “Maybe I should have called.”
Sharon shrugged before opening the car door.
Brad stepped from the car and surveyed the two-story white clapboard, noting a window above the garage covered by a green mini-blind. The yard was swarming with trellises, and honeysuckle climbed everywhere, curling around a gas lamp and extending over the facing of the deck.
Mrs. Kepner appeared at the front door and beckoned them inside.
“Pardon the mess,” she announced, as they entered the living room. “You’re from Philadelphia. You must be that detective. My husband’s been expecting to hear from you, but he’s at work right now.”
If Bob Kepner had skipped work, she evidently didn’t know his whereabouts.
Her shoulder length dark hair looked a shade lighter than black; Clairol probably had a name for it. But her pale skin seemed out of sync with her hair color. She appeared about five and a half feet tall. Denims fit snugly at her waist, while a light-weight sweater accentuated the curves of her torso.
“This is my associate Sharon Porter.” Even though he knew it from his conversation with the school guidance counselor, he added, “I’m sorry, we didn’t get your first name.”
“I’m Linda, and this is Bobby.” She pointed to the blonde and chubby-cheeked tyke scrambling for the plastic dump truck near her feet. “He’s the culprit for most of the disarray.” She laughed.
Brad glanced at Sharon who seemed uncharacteristically subdued. In spite of her insistence on accompanying him, he worried about her health.
“Tell ‘em how old you are, Bobby,” Linda continued. “Come on, Bobby, tell ‘em how old you are.”
Bobby shot three fingers in the air before screeching, “Daddy,” then quickly clamped his hands over his mouth and nose.
“No, Bobby,” Linda corrected him. “Remember the new one we learned?” Linda persisted, as Sharon flashed an eye roll. “Show them how old you’re gonna be.” Linda grabbed Bobby’s hand and coaxed his thumb back into his palm displaying four fingers. She turned to Brad with pride on her face, and said, “Please, have a seat.”
Brad sat in a recliner and surveyed the room framed by off-white walls marred by an occasional crayon mark. Sharon remained standing, but clutched her stomach, and a twinge registered on her face. Bringing her along was a bad idea.
“When do you expect your husband?” Brad asked.
Bobby struggled out of Linda’s hands and ran across the living room where he plopped down at a child-sized table and began playing on a LeapFrog pad. Sharon followed and knelt down next to Bobby asking him to show her what he was doing.
“Thanks!” Linda exhaled. “He can be a handful.” She peeked at her watch. “Bob usually gets home from work around five-thirty. Can I have him give you a call?”
“Yes, I’d appreciate it.” Brad pulled a business card from his wallet and scribbled his local phone number on the back of it. “If I’m not there, have him leave a message.”
Linda stared at the card. “We heard you were inve
stigating Dana Carothers’ death.”
Brad nodded.
“Bob wondered why, after all these years, somebody would be starting an investigation.”
“An insurance policy turned up,” Brad repeated his cover story. “Routine.”
“Oh,” she nodded. “Well, I’ll tell my husband you stopped by. Come on Bobby. Tell the nice lady you have to go. We need to buy birthday candles.”
“You knew Dana Carothers too?” Brad asked.
“Oh, sure. We went to school together. A bunch of us used to hang out.”
Brad noticed Sharon staring off into the kitchen. Linda must have seen the same thing, since she said, “Don’t mind the way this place looks. My cleaning lady couldn’t get here this morning. The service is sending somebody later this afternoon.”
Busted, Sharon recovered with, “I was just admiring the layout.”
“It’s too cramped,” Linda said. “We bought a lot in Sea Pines, and Bob is designing a new house for us. We plan to move next spring.”
Bobby, on his own time schedule, ran to his mother. Sharon stood and brushed herself off.
“Are you in a rush?” Brad asked. “Since you knew Dana, would you mind if we asked you a few questions?”
“I guess not.” Linda glanced at her watch. “It won’t take long to get to the store. We’re having company tonight. As long as I can get dinner started by four-thirty or five, it’ll be okay. This weekend is Bobby’s fourth birthday. We’ve scheduled a party on Saturday, and a few of his friends from day school will be coming. I have to pick up party supplies.”
Sharon pulled a straight back chair from the nearby dining table and sat.
“I’ll be brief,” Brad said. “The police ruled Dana’s death a suicide. Has anything occurred to you in the last few years that would make you question the cause of death?”
“Oh, nobody could believe that Dana had killed himself. He was just too full of life,” Linda said.
“Did you—or any of his friends—do anything to challenge the ruling at the time?”
“No,” she offered quickly. “I mean, I didn’t know we could. Everybody said that’s what it was.”
